School Days by Robert B. Parker Page B

Valley under the high, cloudless sky.
    â€œWhat have you to report?” she said.
    â€œI think he probably did it,” I said.
    â€œI didn’t hire you to tell me he did it,” Mrs. Ellsworth said.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I said.
    She sat very straight in her chair, her hands clasped motionless in her lap. She was perfectly groomed and perfectly still. Under her careful makeup, her skin had a healthy,outdoorsy look to it. Her hair was white, not silver, but white, and brushed back softly off her face. She was quite beautiful.
    â€œDid you ever give money to your grandson?” I said.
    â€œOften,” she said.
    â€œLarge amounts?” I said.
    â€œWhat might seem a large amount to you,” she said, “might seem a very small amount to me.”
    I nodded. I did the math in my head.
    â€œTwo or three thousand dollars?” I said.
    â€œI have given him that much.”
    â€œOften?”
    â€œNo, last winter,” she said. “He needed it.”
    â€œDid he say what for?”
    â€œNo,” she said. “And I did not ask. I love my grandson, Mr. Spenser.”
    I nodded.
    â€œCan you recall exactly when last winter?” I said.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œDid you write a check?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCould you look it up?” I said.
    â€œWhy is that necessary?”
    â€œI believe he bought some guns with the money,” I said. “It might help to know when.”
    â€œHe did not buy guns,” she said.
    â€œMa’am,” I said. “They already have him cold. Grant has named him as the other shooter. He’s confessed to it. I don’t have to help convict him. Anything I can find out will be useful only on his behalf.”
    â€œOr you won’t use it?” she said.
    â€œCorrect,” I said.
    She nodded slowly. We looked out through the glass at the slow lawn that declined toward the valley. Along one side was a stand of hydrangea, their big blossoms moving in the soft wind.
    â€œIt is four-ten in the afternoon,” she said. “Would you care for a cocktail?”
    â€œThat would be nice,” I said.
    She stood effortlessly and walked briskly out of the glass room. I watched the hydrangea blossoms move for a while. She came back with a tray with two glasses on it.
    â€œGin and tonic,” she said. “I suppose I should have asked.”
    â€œThat will be fine,” I said.
    She set the tray down on a low table, and I saw that her checkbook was on the tray also. She handed me one of the glasses and took the other for herself. She raised it toward me slightly.
    â€œYou seem an honest man, sir,” she said.
    â€œÂ â€˜Let be be the end of seem,’ ” I said.
    She smiled faintly.
    â€œÂ â€˜The only emperor,’ ” she said, “ ‘is the emperor of ice-cream.’ ”
    â€œVery good,” I said.
    â€œMy generation read, Mr. Spenser; apparently yours did, too.”
    â€œOr at least I did,” I said. “Still do.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I do as well.”
    She took another pull at her drink. Then she put the glassdown, picked up the checkbook, and began to leaf through the register. I sat with my drink. The hydrangea continued to nod in the late summer outside the glass.
    â€œI gave him three thousand dollars on January twenty-first,” she said after a time. “How many guns would that buy?”
    â€œFour plus ammo,” I said. “And he might have had some left over.”
    â€œFor ski masks,” she said.
    â€œAnd extra magazines,” I said. “Perhaps even a controlled substance.”
    â€œDrugs?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œI believe none of this,” she said.
    â€œNo need to yet,” I said.
    â€œNothing will make me believe it.”
    I didn’t speak.
    â€œYou believe it,” she said.
    â€œI think it likely,” I said.
    â€œAnd you think when he bought